


the wolves at home

by kingandqueeninthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingandqueeninthenorth/pseuds/kingandqueeninthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His victory is an empty one. The North is mostly ashes, and Winterfell is a shell. His people return to him, half the number they once were, with sunken eyes and colorless cheeks.  He restores the castle, but the ghosts remain.<br/>Sansa is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wolves at home

The King in the North forces his way into the Red Keep with a battering ram, and then it is swarmed with Stark and Tyrell bannermen. Robb knows Renly Baratheon is not far behind, and he can’t stand to wait for him any longer. The fighting is nearly finished, with only the castle left to conquer. Grey and white and green and yellow overwhelm the very few red and gold soldiers that remain.

_I’m coming, Sansa._

_\---_

The castle is vast and complicated.

Robb finds himself at the start of yet another corridor when he sees a flash of unmistakable Tully auburn, followed by the briefest glimpse of a gown trailing on the floor before it disappears through a doorway.

 _Sansa._  

 Grey Wind bounds ahead, chasing after her shadow.

“Sansa!”

The silence that follows is deafening.  Robb swallows the lump in his throat, and then he hears the sound of silk dragging against the floor. He can feel her standing at the edge of the room at the end of the hall, her dark silhouette visible on the ground. He sees her reach for Grey Wind, who licks her hands enthusiastically.

Robb’s heart is hammering when his sister steps into the candlelit hallway. She is sheathed in shadows, but he can see her face go white, as though she has seen a ghost.

She makes no move to approach him, so he reaches out to her instead. His steps are slow, his voice low. “Sansa, I’ve come for you.”

She stands still as stone when he embraces her, and won’t look at him when he starts speaking some nonsense about knights and songs and stories that sounds strange and foolish even to his own ears.

They stand in the dark hall for a long time, and then he hears her voice, so soft and tired. “Take me home.”

\---

“Help me,” she says, and it’s half a command and half a plea. She tugs at the elaborately twisted hairstyle, struggling to break yet another one of her ties to King’s Landing.

Robb pulls her into his lap and tries to ignore the way her body tenses at his touch. He runs his fingers over her tightly wound auburn hair. He starts at the top and works his way down, untwisting the strands and unwinding each coil with careful, calloused fingers. He can’t remember the last time he touched anything quite so gently. Soon, her hair starts to fall free, longer than he has ever seen it before, all twisted in waves from the binding style.

She rubs at her scalp with one hand and reaches for the strings at the back of her gown with the other.

Robb pulls them loose and opens the silk gown, letting it slide off her shoulders and fall to a heap at her waist. The façade falls away with Sansa’s dress, and it is then that Robb sees fading bruises and angry red welts.

 His voice is a pained rasp. “Sansa…”

“It’s done,” she says with finality.

They leave for Winterfell the following morning, and they don’t speak of it again.

\---

He takes Sansa back to Winterfell with an army at their back. He returns home a conqueror, and yet he feels as though he has lost everything he was fighting for. It would seem that he had rescued a stranger in Sansa’s body, because his sister is all but gone.

Sansa never smiles, not even when she sees the progress on the ruin that was their childhood home. She is wound tight, a coil waiting to spring upwards. The line of her back is rigid and her fists are always clenched. Her eyes dart about, looking for unseen enemies. She is wary and hard and untouchable.

She shuts herself away in her chamber most all the time. She turns away the handmaidens and speaks to Robb through her wooden door.

His victory is an empty one. The North is mostly ashes, and Winterfell is a shell. His people return to him, half the number they once were, with sunken eyes and colorless cheeks.  He restores the castle, but the ghosts remain.

Sansa is one of them.

\---

He hears her screams while he lays awake in bed, staring at the ceiling when the sun has set and the candles have been blown out. Her voice is shrill and piercing and it echoes through every corridor of the castle. He is certain he isn’t the only one who hears it.

He had so hoped that she would seek him out the way she used to when they were young. He was the only one that could keep her bad dreams away, and the only one she wanted when the darkness closed in on her just a little too tight.

He always sits up, torn between lying back down and going to her and pleading that she let him in and at least _try_ to fix what he broke.

He never gets up.

He fears her rejection. He can practically feel her dead eyes on him as he fantasizes of making attempts to reach her. He imagines her long fingers barely touching him, but pushing him away with all the strength that is left to her. She doesn’t want him, and she makes it very plain.

He wakes early and roams the castle, just to be sure he is available should she come in search of him. It is a hopeless, empty dream, but it becomes his routine.

She is always late to rise. She hardly touches what she is served when she breaks her fast alone, though he has asked her again and again if he might join her. She pushes her food around on her plate and then disappears from the table. He never knows where. When he does see her, she is pacing the halls. She’s a horrific sight, so haunted and gaunt and spiritless.

\---

She is not the same as she was. He hadn’t expected her to be. He tried not to expect anything at all. A very small part of him had wanted things to return to normal. He had hoped desperately for it.

He tries to speak with her, but his mouth is often dry and she is rarely able to hold conversation. Sometimes she looks at him like he isn’t there, and other times she hardly seems to recognize him.

Sansa’s attention strays easily. Her eyes wander down some invisible path, seeking something unknown to Robb. His sister appears lost inside herself, drifting aimlessly. He wonders if her mind torments her the way Joffrey did.

The ghosts of lions still have his sister in their jaws.

\---

He feels like a fool, standing outside her chamber door with the silly story book her used to read to her in the days when she couldn’t yet make sense of the words on the page. It is dusty and the pages have a distinct smell of age, but he grips it like it may be his saving grace.

Grey Wind stands beside him, sensing his anxiety and flicking his tail back and forth.

There is a long pause after he knocks on the heavy wooden door, but then he hears a tremulous voice. “Robb?”

A sense of relief feels him, at the mere idea that she may have been expecting him or wanting him or thinking of him. “Can I come in?”

There is another long, agonizing pause, and then he hears her begin to open the door.

She is pale as milk standing before him in a thin nightgown. There is no color to her cheeks, and her lips are bloodless. She is half a corpse.

“I thought I might read to you,” he says, lifting the book to show her. The look in her eyes is anything but pleased, and he desperately grasps for any other reason to be with her. He glimpses the empty fireplace and the goose prickles on her skin. “You must be freezing.”

“Oh.” She looks over her shoulder at the fireplace. “I would do it myself if I knew how. The maids have tried, but I always send them away,” she explains. Her eyes meet his briefly, and then she looks away. “I don’t like the way they look at me.”

“I could kindle you a fire,” he offers, forgetting the book and abandoning any plan he had. “If you like.”

She does nothing but look at him for a stretch of time before finally nodding. She opens the door no more than she has to. “Come in, then.”

Sansa returns to her bed, pulling her furs up to her neck. Grey Wind slinks through the doorway and into her chamber before Robb even moves. He leaps into her bed without warning and turns twice before dropping down into the covers beside her.

“Grey Wind,” he scolds, shutting the door behind him. “To me.”

The wolf hesitates. For once, he does not jump to follow Robb’s command.

Sansa’s hand finds its way to the fur at his neck. “Don’t,” she says, and then she goes paler, if it’s even possible. “I only meant, I don’t mind.” Her hands move down the length of Grey Wind, digging her fingers through his thick fur. A smile nearly ghosts her lips, and he hears a deep rumble within Grey Wind’s chest.

He stands there, taking in the sight of his great direwolf tucked in beside his wisp of a sister. He almost forgets the past, almost forgets that he was not invited in for company.

“The fire,” Sansa reminds, though he needs no help remembering he is unwanted.

He turns his attention to the fireplace and builds her a fire so fierce it could melt the Wall. It’s what she needs, if her pallor is any indication. The blood of winter may run in her veins, but she is pale as a ghost.

He stands back, admiring his work.

“Thank you,” she says from behind him. Her voice is calm, civil, and cold as ice.

_She’s dismissing me._

 He nods and takes his leave.

\---

Without the help of the maids, Sansa grows just a tad disheveled. Her hair gets a little wild and her dresses seem to repeat a bit too often. It doesn’t bother Robb. He suspects no one else takes notice. After all, he watches her more closely than anyone else.

But when he receives a letter about _visitors_ in Margaery’s elegant scrawl, he knows things must change. While the North may know that the princess isn’t the same way that she was, he would prefer that that information travel no farther. It is a private matter, as he sees it. It does not and should not concern the South. 

And though Margaery is very good with her words, Robb knows her true motive. There can only be one reason to send her cousin, Elinor Tyrell, to what he knows outsiders consider a wintery wasteland.

A mere suggestion, he is sure, to strengthen the bond between Stark, Tyrell, and Baratheon. But it is one he won’t consider. A wife is the last thing he needs. Truth be told, he would rather have his sister’s trust back than a wife to warm his bed.

There is plenty of time for a wedding and a wife later, but to placate Margaery, he decides he will not protest Elinor’s visit.

For several days, he mulls over how to approach the issue with Sansa. She needs a proper bath and some real grooming, but he knows she will not welcome it. The maids are strangers, and worse, they whisper.

He is tactless when it comes to speaking. He almost wishes Sansa’s struggles could be settled on the battlefield, as he is sure he would win her over. But it is a war of courtesies and most of it is unspoken.

So he arrives outside her solar with her supper, largely without a plan, and knocks on her door with blind courage.

Sansa is slow to answer the door, but when she does, his head is empty. All he can think to say is, “We’ll soon have company.”

She blinks at him. “Company,” she repeats, as though she has never even heard of it.

“Elinor Tyrell. A cousin to Margaery. A close friend to her, as well.”

Sansa’s brow furrows. “To Winterfell?”

Robb clears his throat. There is no good way to explain it to her and he cannot lie. “It would seem that Margaery wants us to meet.”

“Oh,” Sansa says with an understanding nod.

Silence follows.

“I brought you supper,” he says weakly, hoping she will open the door further.

She doesn’t.

He knows she doesn’t want to make small talk. She probably doesn’t want to talk to him much at all. The sooner he can leave her in peace, the better. “Will you allow the maids long enough to bathe you?”

“Please, no,” she says instantly. “Please, don’t make me.”

 _I couldn’t make you do anything. I wouldn’t._ “Why not, Sansa?”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and looks down. “I have scars.”

Her explanation is enough. No one else needs to see. Not if she doesn’t want them to. “Then allow me.”

She looks up at him then, through dark lashes that catch the candlelight. “Is it so pressing?”

 _Honesty is best,_ he tells himself. “I think it would be best that we start the practice of keeping up appearances.”

“Very well then,” she concedes after a beat.

She opens the door at last and takes the food from him. Sansa eats while Robb makes her a bath. He sees her eyes follow the steam as she swallows small spoonfuls of soup. She hardly seems to taste it at all, but she does eat, and it’s enough for him. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, pretending to have his full attention on the task at hand. Something about the way she delicately lifts the spoon to her mouth makes his palm twitch. She is so frail. He would strike something if he could. His anger is misplaced. He feels all the wrong things at all the wrong times.

There seems to be no good reason for the things he feels and why he feels them, when he feels them. It could be war, and the way it seemed to find him too young. He hardly ever let his thoughts linger on any reasoning behind it.

Once she’s finished, he takes a brush to her hair, which has grown thin and dull. The tangles seem insurmountable, but he is slow and steady with his strokes until her hair becomes the recognizable waterfall of auburn that matches his own so perfectly. He runs his fingers through sections, loosening the knots. Something about the feel of her hair between the spaces of his fingers makes the nervousness in his stomach settle.

He helps her from bed when it’s time. She turns her back to him, pulling her hair over one shoulder, and he starts unlacing. He briefly thinks of how long it’s been since he’s been with a woman, and then he thinks of Sansa, and how thin she is beneath the pads of his fingers. He forgets the rest.   

He lifts her arms from the sleeves and pulls her bodice away. Even as her skirts fall, she stands still and passive. He doesn’t want to see it, but his eyes find every bone that protrudes. Her skin seems stretched thin, colorless. She is scarred, but not so terribly. However, it is enough for the handmaidens to spin tales about.

She puts her arms across her chest, gripping her shoulders self consciously. She looks at him over her shoulder, her back to him still.

Robb doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t want his eyes to stray from hers, so he gestures weakly to the water.

“Help me,” she says, and he thinks of the night he undressed her in King’s Landing. That was the last time they had been so close, and it felt like lifetimes ago. He offers his hand and she takes it. He keeps his eyes on her face, watching her expression as she steps into the hot water. Her mouth opens, lips parting enough to make a noise between a gasp and a sigh as the water envelopes her.

She sinks low in the water until it reaches her neck while Robb stands there, unsure of what he’s supposed to do. He keeps his eyes off the water but avoids her eyes still. It feels strangely inappropriate despite having been innocent thus far.

His heart hammers so loudly that it fills his ears. He barely hears Sansa say, “My hair.”

Her subtle direction spurs him back into action. He grabs a chair, places it behind her at the head of the bath, and sits. He’s never washed a woman’s hair before and he hasn’t any idea what he’s doing, but Sansa makes no complaint as he works. He washes it as he would anything else, but he makes an effort toward tenderness.

He forces himself to study her hair. Suds of soap slip down the fall of her tresses, returning to the water where they burst. Thankfully, the water grows murky with soap and he can look at it without feeling as though he is betraying her.

When she is lathered nearly to death, she dips her head beneath the water, rinsing herself clean for the first time in far too long. She breaks the surface a new woman, or at the very least, smelling like one.

When it comes to washing the rest of her, the nervous knot in his stomach returns. She offers her arms first, lifting them up for Robb to take. He holds them up gently and runs the soapy cloth from shoulder to fingertips, and then back again underneath each arm. He moves to her neck, focusing on the lines of her neck and the structure of her collarbone as the bubbles of soap fill each dip and crevice.

He brings the cloth down her front, skimming the sensitive areas of her breasts so as not to create any sort of doubt about his intentions. He loves his sister, and if a bath will help, he will bathe her every day, keeping his eyes on every innocent area she possesses. He keeps his eyes trained on the bones of her spine and the peaks of her shoulders while he washes her chest from behind.

She lifts her leg, throwing one at a time over the edge of the tub. He stands to wash them, starting at her feet. Just as he starts to rub the cloth on the underside of her feet, she jumps, squealing a little, pulling away.

“Sansa,” he begins with a wry smile. “Are you still ticklish?”

He hadn’t tickled her in years, but he used to torment her more than any other sibling. He had nearly forgotten how jumpy she was. She would always run from him, screaming, and Catelyn would scold him for torturing a lady.

She bites her lip and looks away from him. He almost thought she was blushing with embarrassment. “I suppose so.”

He holds his hand out expectantly. “Give me your foot.”

She very nearly smiles. “Only if you behave yourself, brother.”

He gives her his most demure smile. “My best behavior,” he promises, sweetly.

She narrows her blue eyes at him skeptically, but lifts her leg to put her foot in his hand all the same.

He starts innocently, just lightly washing, until Sansa tips her head backwards against the lip of the tub and closes her eyes. Only then does he gently skim his fingers against the arch of her foot, tapping and drumming and dragging until she bolts upright screaming and howling with laughter. Her face has been so drawn and tight that he thinks a smile might shatter the porcelain of her ski.

But she survives the smile, sitting upright and gripping the sides of the tub as the water sloshes from the movement. She splashes him then, smacking the water with her hand until he’s half as soaked as she is.

There’s a knock at the door to ensure the screams were not for help. Sansa holds a hand over her mouth and watches with wide eyes as Robb dismisses them, saying he has the situation under complete control.

He returns to washing her legs. When he reaches her knees, he keeps going, even dipping into the water to wash up to her hip. Still, he is careful to avoid certain areas, and Sansa returns to her own silence as she watches him intently.

“Now they’ll have something new to whisper about,” Sansa says as she draws her legs back into the tub. “Princess Sansa Stark screaming in her bed chamber with her brother inside.”

“Let them whisper.”

 Unsure of how to proceed, Robb’s washing comes to a halt. His clothes drip and Sansa just looks at him, waiting.

“Shall I stand?” She asks. It sounds innocent.

 _It is innocent,_ he thinks. _A bath for your sister._

There’s a lump in his throat. “Do you want to stand?”

The water sloshes as she rises, answering without words. She is naked as her name day and shameless all the same.

He fears he hesitates too much, but he takes the cloth to her midsection. He soaps her up and down her back, and then across the flat of her stomach. He soaps up to her breast bone, ignoring everything above. He dips into her belly button and then runs the cloth straight down to her knees. He somehow washes without seeing, or noticing, or thinking. The washing isn’t nearly as thorough as it had been, but he thinks it far better that way.

She bends to rinse herself and only then does he see. The curve of her ass and the drop of her breasts as she leans are noticeable, and water skims hips as it runs down. He looks away and shifts his weight, shifting everything that has risen to meet Sansa.

He runs a hand over his face, feigning fatigue when he is more awake than ever. Shielding his eyes does no good. She rises, shaking off water, and looks at him, waiting. Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes dark, but the heat of the bath has given her a flush her thinks makes her almost look healthy.

“Shall I leave you to it?” He can hear the strain in his own voice.

She nods.  “I think I can manage.”

He makes his way to the door hastily and just as he opens it, he hears he thank him, but he is already feeing down the hall.

\---

Even when she doesn’t require a bath, she invites him to her room for help. It’s always something different. He dresses her, braids her hair, and collects worn clothing from the furniture about her room. Whatever it may be, it’s his help she wants, and he is eager to please. Any invite inside Sansa’s chamber is one he’ll take.

There isn’t much conversation between them, just the completing of tasks and sharing of space.

 _Progress all the same,_ he thinks.

She progresses elsewhere, too. He sees her in the library on occasion, reading aloud to Grey Wind. She keeps most of her thoughts to herself. She speaks to Robb occasionally, but stays quiet around the staff. He suspects Grey Wind hears more of her voice than anyone else.

But at night, she is his.

He mentions the handmaids only once more, when he feels especially weak while brushing her hair. She sits before him on her bed, legs crossed and hair down her back. He runs the brush through in long, even strokes until he can run his fingers through every strand without catching.

He clears his throat when he’s through, wanting to say something. More than that, he wants to stay with Sansa though he is no longer of any use to her on this particular night.

She doesn’t speak to him, but she does turn to face him as she pulls her hair over one shoulder.

Seizing his opportunity, Robb takes the thick of her hair, which feels healthy once more, and starts to braid. It reminds him of their mother and the way she wore it so long ago. It’s a strange feeling to see the sweetness of Sansa mixed with the sadness he associates with the mother they lost too soon. Bittersweet.

He works his way down from her neck, plaiting slowly. He does his best to keep his eyes on her hair and the luster of it, but her nightgown is white and sheer enough to see the pale skin beneath. The pink peaks of her breast stand out the most, pebbled beneath the fabric. They stand up and out, drawing the material into a pucker around them.

He works with an innocent focus as best he can though the skin of his fingers grazes the swell and curve of her breast beneath her hair. He feels himself faltering, thinking things he shouldn’t think of concerning his sister.

He considers his resolve and the way it seems to have weakened. He thinks of gripping her breast, squeezing, and his mouth on her neck. He imagines taking her hair by the bottom and looping it up and around his fist to pull her to him.  He pictures her squirming beneath him as he presses a hand down on her belly while he works crooked fingers in and out of her.

Then he thinks of how vile and awful he is, and he suggests the help of the maids.

Sansa shakes her head.  “I cannot bear giving them something to whisper about. I know that anything they see, or anything I do…it won’t be enough to please them.”

She gives them something to talk about all the same. Keeping everyone out only stirs rumors more, especially when Robb is allowed in. Worse, is that he wants to keep it that way, but can’t see himself standing steadfast against his depraved wishes much longer.

But he comes every night that she calls. He fixes her sheets and her hair. He lights candles and fires and helps her with her nightgown. He brings meals and braids her hair and makes small bits of conversation here and there. He keeps his eyes on hers and only lets them stray lower when she looks away.

She looks better. She seems better. She is better.

He’s around as often as he can be, and when he isn’t, Grey Wind is. He is her silent shadow when she dares leave her room or venture outside. It keeps everyone away from her, and she says that’s the way she likes it.

“I prefer my own company,” she says as he brushes her hair straight again one night. “Or yours. Or Grey Wind’s.”

Robb smiles. He prefers it that way as well.

\---

When Sansa finds herself in need of a bath again, she sends for him.

He follows the same pattern of studying her hair and shoulders and the pale skin of her back and legs and everywhere that isn’t her breasts or the tuft of red hair between her thighs. He comes to know the strangest parts of her very well, and thinks of how it would be nice to know the others better. But he pushes the thought away.

She stands at the end for her final scrubbing. When his cloth passes over the peaks of her breasts, he feels her nipples stiffen. He blames it on the chill in the air. He looks away as he drags it across the patch of hair that he refuses to acknowledge.

She catches his hand. “Are you blushing, big brother?”

He looks up at her, willing the color off his cheeks. “I’m glad you feel well enough to tease.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “It isn’t me who teases.”

She doesn’t hesitate to lift her leg to the edge of the tub, opening herself to him. She takes the cloth from him and lets it fall to the water with a splash, bringing his hand between her legs. She whimpers as she brings his hand against her.

He holds it there but doesn’t move. He can only look at her and hold his breath.

Her eyes are heavy lidded, her lips parted just slightly. She puts each hand on his shoulders, still standing in the water. She leans against him, directing his hand just so.

“Sansa,” he starts, not sure where he’s headed.

“Robb,” she sighs into his ear. The sound of his name on her lips is enough to tear a kingdom apart.

He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows his fear.

“Please,” she says softly, dragging out the word like it’s sweet on her tongue. “I want to feel something.”

He couldn’t deny her anything. He can think of about a thousand ways to make her feel something and none are appropriate for siblings. But she wants it and he has no self control of willpower or hope of staying strong when she says _please_ again. He feels the soft folds of pink skin and spreads them easily, working between them until he feels the nub that makes her dig her fingers into his shoulder. He works gently, softly, until she presses into him harder.

“More, please,” she whispers, legs buckling slightly.

His fingers slide against her easily, wetter with every pass. He legs shake and so does she, trembling against his body as she falls into him. She moans, biting his shoulder so hard he thinks she may draw blood.

She grows heavier as he works, her legs surrendering before the rest of her body gives itself over. She finishes with a cry and a hard, body wracking shudder. She nearly collapses into him, so he holds her up until her breathing is no longer so ragged.

He lifts her from the tub and puts her in bed, damp and naked and flushed with pleasure. She smiles at him and it’s genuine. It even touches her eyes. But he is acutely aware of the pulse between his legs and the stickiness of his right hand. The room smells of her and it all swirls into a heady combination.

“You’re very good at that,” she breathes, looking up at him. “Better than I am.”

A strange sense of pride fills him, nearly eclipsing the shame.

“Have you had much practice?”

He hears her real question and considers all the answers he could give. “There is no one else.”

 “Just me.”

“Just you,” he agrees.

The only sound in the room is Sansa’s breathing. Robb holds his breath, rubbing his sticky fingers together.

“I only want to feel good, Robb,” she says, breaking the silence. It seems like an explanation, or even an apology. He feels her trying to absolve him of his guilt, as if giving an innocent reason for the perversion frees him of responsibility. “There’s been so much bad and that was good.”

His mouth has gone dry but his head spins, swirling with thoughts of her.  He wants to say something, anything, but he can’t think of what she wants to hear. He settles for the truth. “I want to make you feel good.”

“You did.”

Her compliments make his cock stir. Blood flows south and he feels it straining against his breeches. “I should go.”

Sansa glances down between his legs. “Maybe you should.”

Once again, he practically runs from her, but she calls out to him just before he can escape.

“You’re a good brother, Robb.”

He feels like anything but.

\---

Weeks pass while they wait for Elinor. Robb dreads her arrival. He doesn’t want to spoil his nightly escapades.

It becomes the strangest routine he has experienced. Sometimes it starts with a bath or brushing her hair or kindling the fire, and then it becomes something more. And then there are nights when Robb opens the door to see Sansa naked on her bed, legs spread or knees to her chest, just waiting for him.

“I want to forget,” she says sometimes. When Sansa is lost in the pleasure and Robb is caught up in watching her gasp for him, it’s like they are the only two people in the world. No world exists beyond her chamber. There is nothing that matters more than his hand on her cunt.

The time they spend together does wonders for Robb. He wants to wake up. He wants to get through the day. He wants to go to her.

And it seems to resurrect Sansa. Her hair grows thick once more, and she eats willingly. She puts on weight, filling out her cheeks and breasts. They peek out from the neck of her gown, and Robb pretends not to notice, though he sees that he is not the only one taking note. Sansa is very pretty, and he is far from the only one who sees.

His heart always thunders on the long, nightly walk to her. He looks forward to their time together in the worst way. He worries that he might do something to spoil it. He worries Elinor will spoil it.  

Then again, he worries they will keep it up, and he cannot even imagine what could come of that.

There are invisible boundaries and unspoken rules. Robb never kisses her. He never puts his mouth on her anywhere, in fact. She doesn’t touch him. They don’t speak much at all. Though, they don’t speak much outside her bedchamber, either. In some ways, he thinks Sansa has made leagues of progress, but in other ways, she is as stunted as the day he rescued her.

He wants nothing more than to speak to her the way he used to, and to hear her respond. They had always been frank with each other. She had trusted him. They had been so close. He wants the closeness again. He wants more than the nights with her.

But he wouldn’t trade their nights for anything. They have their own brand of sweetness, separate from the wonderful spoken secrets they had shared when they were young and innocent. It is evident that she still trusts him. Her legs fall open easily for his hands. She closes her eyes. She throws her arms out of the sides.

Sansa is never so at ease as she is when she’s in bed with him.

“You’re so good at this,” she says once, breathlessly. It had been especially good that time and she had soaked his hand and the sheet underneath her.

Robb comes to know her body well. He knows how to crook his fingers inside her and how to rub them against her. He knows when to make tiny circles and long strokes. He knows when to press down and when to let up. He becomes one with Sansa when he works over her, noting every intake of breath and every shudder. He memorizes the way her back arches and the sound she makes when she exhales long and slow.

Once she’s satiated, he puts her to bed and makes his way to his own.

And then he replays the best of it over in his mind, stroking his cock until he’s satisfied, too. He finds himself fixated on the smallest of moments, like the sigh she makes when her whole body relaxes, or the way she digs her nails into his hand when she’s close.

\---

Elinor Tyrell arrives in a flurry of glorious, flowery, satiny gowns and twisted, ropey hairstyles. She always smells like fresh flowers and she is willowy as a reed. She is pretty, soft spoken, and gentle. A good match for most anyone, Robb would wager. But all the same, it is one he isn’t interested in.

Her laughter comes easily and so do her smiles. Her favor is not hard to win and she is pleasant as can be. She shines like the sun, a radiant glow in the cold of Winterfell. Her laughter fills the halls as she speaks with Robb and toys with Grey Wind.

But however lovely Elinor may be, she is not even half as lovely as Sansa.

Sansa has suffered and Elinor has not, but Sansa wears her sorrow well. It makes her taller; her back is straighter and her head is held higher. She is cool and ladylike and elegant.

Robb is to have a queen and Sansa seems fit for a crown.

Though her mood is often somber, Sansa outshines Elinor with even the smallest of smiles.  Sansa’s even, smooth laughter is worth a hundred thousand of Elinor’s long, bubbling giggles. With scarce smiles and such infrequent laughter, winning over Sansa is a far sweeter reward.

For the first few days after Einor’s arrival, Robb does not venture to Sansa’s room at night. Instead, he spends his time kissing Elinor’s hand and escorting her here and there. The pleasantries are necessary and he fears for Sansa should anything be suspected between them.

But his hands grow restless and his cock twitchy.

It’s far too deep into the night when he finally goes to her. The darkness is his shield and he moves silently through the halls until he is at her door, forcing his way in. He finds her sleeping, but she wakes when he bars the door.

When he turns to her, she is rubbing her eyes and sitting up, just starting to speak.

“I want to try something,” he interrupts. His heart pounds so hard his chest might burst. There is already strain between his legs. His stomach flips just at the sight of her.

She blinks her bleary eyes at him and then groggily says, “Do what you will.”

He crosses the room and gets on her bed, and then onto his knees. He pulls her furs back. He hardly recognizes the sound of his own voice as he sternly says, “Lie back.”

He doesn’t know why but she obeys.

His fingers go to the buttons on the front of her nightgown, undoing them as quickly as he can. He throws it open and positions himself over her, one hand on each side of her hand. He bows his head so low that he can feel her breath on his cheek and see the faintest touch of uncertainty in her eyes.

“Are you going to kiss me?” She whispers. The ghost of innocence haunts her words. He wonders if Joffrey kissed her, or if anyone else did. His sword hand twitches again. In the dark of her room, she might be his baby sister again, instead of the woman who occupies his every thought while he has a hand on his cock.

“Do you want me to?”

“Not on my mouth,” she breathes.

 _Boundaries,_ he thinks, but her restriction has a darker tone. _Not the mouth, then._ He touches her lips with the tip of his index finger, grazing the smooth skin and then dipping into the wet of her mouth. She stares back at him and he knows he has captured her attention.

He knows that there should be limits and he shouldn’t push them, but he is certain that he is.

Robb drags his finger from her lips to her chin, to her neck, and then down to her breastbone. “Here?”

He can feel her heart beating, fast and hard against her ribcage.

“Yes,” Sansa breathes, looking down at him.

“Tell me what you want.” He wants to be sure he’s only pushing limits that she allows, but more than that, he wants to hear her say it.

“Yes,” she repeats. “Kiss me.”

He brings himself to her breastbone and kisses her softly, almost chastely. But there is nothing chaste about a sister naked beneath her brother. She is salty and warm and smooth under his tongue. She wiggles a little beneath him as he takes his finger and dips into her belly button. “Here?”

She nods, her lips parting and her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip.

He swipes his tongue into the void and Sansa whimper, but he still drags his finger lower. He slows his movements, making her shiver as he runs his fingertip down and through the thick of the hair between her legs.

He circles his finger around the top of her slit, watching Sansa’s expression. “Here?”

“Yes.” Her voice is hoarse but sure.

Robb wastes no more time. He is certain that his soul is damned straight to the seven hells, but every sin with Sansa is worth it. He will rot in his grave, maggots crawling through his empty eye sockets, and still remember the way Sansa arches her back when he finally touches her with his tongue.

\---

The girls in Elinor’s retinue are none too fond of Sansa and it is clear as day. They group together when she passes, all giggles and whispers and sideways glances.

That’s how it starts, at least. 

She is a spectacle to them at first. The quiet, Northern princess is pretty as a picture but silent as the grave, he hears one of them say. He suspects their gossip is mostly idle curiosity, but it makes Robb bristle all the same.

To Elinor’s credit, she does make several attempts to befriend the king’s sister. The little Tyrell offers kind words and compliments, sometimes even making grasps at conversation. But when Sansa looks at Elinor, it’s as if she sees right through her.

“Your sister…” Elinor starts one day, while wearing a dress that dips so low he suspects she may be trying to grasp his attention in ways that don’t involve conversation. “She is…a quiet girl.”

He shrugs in an evasive way. He hasn’t any idea what to say.

Elinor laughs a little. It is a nervous, embarrassed sound and Robb would feel badly if he felt anything for her at all. “It’s silly, I suppose, but I want her to like me.”

 _She thinks there is a future for her in Winterfell,_ he realizes. _She sees herself here with me._

“You needn’t worry yourself with my sister.”

Robb sees only Sansa.

\---

The sleeve of Sansa’s gown falls in the wrong way one day. It slips down her arm and exposes one of the more severe scars that his sister wears. It is clearly a slash from something, but Sansa has always refused to tell Robb just exactly how she acquired it.

It does not go unnoticed. Mia, the one who reminds Robb of a little blonde weasel, gasps at the sight.

Sansa doesn’t seem to notice, but Robb does. He watches as Mia goes to Elinor and bends to whisper in her ear. Both of them immediately look to Sansa with wide eyes. Then Elinor turns to the rest of her little attendants and Robb has seen enough.

He is impatient with want that night when he orders Sansa up onto her knees with her chest to the bed. Her ass is high in the air and one side of her face is pressed to her furs. He’s going to break more rules, but if he doesn’t kiss her, it might be okay. If they can’t look each other in the eye when it happens, it might not be as sinful.

He spreads her legs, pushing her knees as far apart as they will go. He touches her gently and his finger comes away wet. Her legs shake a little. He can hear her breathing.

“Do you want-”

He hasn’t even begun to say the horrible thing but she is already saying, “Yes.”

He doesn’t move. He isn’t even sure that he can.

“I want you inside me,” she tells him. “And I want it to happen like this.”

 _Like this,_ he says again in his mind. “It could be different.”

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t want to face you. And I don’t want you to kiss me.”

It is then that he realizes that even when he is deep inside her, as joined and close as they can be, Sansa will still be miles away from him.

But he can’t think about it any longer so he undoes his breeches and goes to nimbly working her with his fingers. She nearly drips as she pushes her ass into him, grinding against his hand. He smoothes his hand from the small of her back to the top of her spine, wrapping a hand around the base of her neck. He can feel her pulse racing in the column of her neck.

Just as he’s pulling his hand away from her, she says, “I’ve never done this before.”

He swallows hard. “We don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Though he is pleased that she hasn’t been forced into losing all of her innocence, he is sad for her as well. He doesn’t want Sansa’s first experience to happen while she is facedown in her bed with her back to her lover – her _brother._ She should have every kiss in the world, long and sweet and soft and short and hard and warm.

He wants to make it better or at least improve upon it somehow. He wants it to be a sweet memory for her even if there is pain. At the very least, they are alone together and that is a gift in itself.

“You’re very beautiful,” he tells her. He knows it is a small truth that carries little weight to the girl who had long since learned there was more to life than beauty. But all the same, it is true and he means it.

“I’m your sister,” Sansa replies.

He isn’t sure what point she is making.

With as much as much ease ad grace as he can, he slides into her slowly as she opens up for him.

He can just barely see her face, but he can see that she is wincing. She bites her lip until she has taken all of him, and then she sighs. She is  hot and wet within, but most of all, tight around him and he aches to move.

“How do you feel?” He rasps, playing at calm.

“Fine,” she breathes, arching her back. She could glance at him if she wanted to. She could look up and over her shoulder but she does not.

So he sets a slow, even pace that makes him throb but causes no stress to her.

Her breathing comes fast and hard all the same, mixing with the sound of skin slapping. The sound fills the quiet of her room, only to be replaced by the sharpest of cries from Sansa. She clenches all at once around him, and then her release comes in waves that grip his cock until he is spilling within her.

He pulls out of her, wet and sated. She stays in her position, the white of his seed dripping out of her a little at a time until she moves onto her back.

He wipes her forehead, which is a show of affection that Sansa allows. He pushes back the tiny wisps of red hair that fall around her face. She is all red cheeks and bright blue eyes, lips flush from the thrill.

Robb wonders if his sister is drinking moon tea.

But then she looks him right in the eyes for the first time in awhile and he forgets.

\---

There is only so much that the pack of Tyrells can attribute to brotherly love.

Sometimes, his nights with Sansa start early. Right after supper, when he is especially impatient, he abandons Elinor in favor of his sister. He’s _supposed_ to spend time with Elinor after they eat, but he is often unable to focus when he knows Sansa is waiting for him.

Then there are nights when he tries to be good. He tries to forget his little sister with her long, slender legs and the wet, pink opening between them. Those are the evenings he spends with Elinor, pretending to care about what she has to say. He spends far too much time pretending there is something there when there isn’t.

Those are the nights when Sansa screams.

The night terrors have subsided, but they are not gone. They sometimes come at random but they are nearly always present when Robb doesn’t visit. There is nothing to soothe the pain of the nights and she screams as though she is being stabbed in the belly.

Robb always runs for her. He throws open the door and shakes her from sleep.

He is usually with Elinor when it happens, but it is always Elinor that he leaves alone to herself.  

“You’re so good to her,” she says one day. She drags a finger along his thigh, smiling. “She is so lucky to have you.”

 _I am the lucky one,_ he thinks. He knows it best when his lips are on Sansa’s cunt.

But then the tune that Elinor sings begins to change. As she grows increasingly desperate, the looks she gives Sansa are more and more hateful. And the looks she gives Robb are more and more suspicious.

Soon, she does not acknowledge Sansa at all.

\---

Just a week before Elinor Tyrell announces her departure, she tries to kiss Robb Stark.

He has done so well at deflecting her that it takes him by surprise when she leans in to take what he will not give her otherwise. She is bold, and too presumptuous by half. She does catch him though, even if it’s just by the corner of his mouth. She is sickeningly sweet on his lips.

He turns from her and distances himself with a hand between them. His hand goes to his mouth almost instantly, rubbing the taste of her away. “Elinor…”

He wants to be direct and clear, and despite having little regard for her feelings, he thinks it best he is polite about it. She has whispered about Sansa and given her dirty looks, but he knows better than to burn a bridge so close to Margaery.

As he searches for the words, he looks up to the doorway and sees only the faintest sliver of Sansa. She is mostly hidden, just gripping the frame for support as she watches him with the one eye visible to him. As soon as their eyes meet, she is gone again and there is only Elinor looking at him.

“I haven’t been clear and for that I’m sorry,” he says as gently as he can. This is a time to be kingly, if he can manage it. He’s hardly looking at her because his gaze is over her shoulder, lingering where Sansa had been.

She bites her lip and looks away. When he had imagined rejecting her, Robb had thought that she may cry, but here she stood, looking angry.

“I’m not a marrying man,” he offers in explanation. It sounds like a weak excuse even in his own ears.

“I suspect that for the right woman,” she begins in a measured voice. “You would be.”

\---

He knocks on Sansa’s door and there is no reply. He tries once more to no avail and then he opens it anyway.

She sits before her mirror, braiding her own hair. He is certain she hears the sound of the door opening and closing behind him, but she keeps her eyes on her reflection. She only looks at him after he bars the door, and his eyes meet hers in the mirror.

“It’s terribly late,” she says, and he knows he is in trouble.

“It was not…” he hesitates. “The way it seemed.”

She rolls her eyes, as though he’s foolish to think she is upset. “Robb, it does not concern me nor does it interest me.”

He can only look at her as she goes about braiding her hair. He wants to speak but he will say the wrong thing. They so rarely converse. They certainly never talk about anything meaningful. He isn’t even sure what to say to her or how to make the words come.

“She seems very sweet,” Sansa continues. “But her head is empty.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“And that’s fine. Truly. I was like her so long ago. I smiled and talked about silly things. I had dreams of a king and a life in a different place. I am glad she is a girl. It is suffering that creates a woman.”

It is a woman that sits before him. The girl he called his sister is long gone.

“We have had more than our fair share of pain. I think it might do you good to bring the light back into Winterfell.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I don’t want her. I have no use for her.”

“And I have no reason to be jealous.” She pauses, setting down her hairbrush. “Which you seem to think that I am.”

He wonders if Sansa means to imply that she does not envy the Tyrell girl for her innocence; then again, it may just be that she is indifferent to Robb now, and has no reason to want to be the only woman in his life.

“As you say.”

She takes her hairbrush back up and he turns to leave, but the sound of her voice stops him in his tracks.

“Let me be clear.”

“I do not miss the girl I was. And I don’t wish I were still as sweet and simple as Elinor Tyrell. Nothing good ever came of my own innocence. I’m glad it’s gone.”

“I never meant to imply that you had reason to be jealous,” he says softly.

She doesn’t seem to hear him. “But I want you to myself, jealous or not.”

His heart stutters in his chest. “I’m yours.”

“For how long?” She turns to face him at last, the hairbrush in her lap. She looks straight at him. “You are a king. The king needs an heir. Elinor is just the beginning. There is an endless stream of women headed your way.”

“I won’t allow anymore.”

She laughs. “Am I to be your heir, then?”

He bristles at the sound of her laughing at him. She can make him feel a fool quicker than anyone else.

“I have no desire to marry.”

She gives him a wry smile. “You’re acting like a child, Robb.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You will marry,” she says, toying with her hair. “And you will stop acting like what’s happening between us is some great storybook romance.”

Robb may be king but Sansa makes the demands.

\---

The week between the kiss and Elinor’s departure is a stressful one. Sansa won’t answer the door and it is locked when he tries to slip in anyway. He gives up on going to her because it is worse to be rejected than to sit awake and alone. Only after the Tyrell girl is gone does Sansa seek him out.

She shows up at his door in only a fur. He nearly dies at the sight of her. Worse, she complains about how tightly he grabs her as he pulls her into his room, but he can only think of the gossip and her sanity.

She shifts their routine and starts arriving at his door instead of laying in wait for him.

Robb likes the change. He feels wanted and it is a good way to feel. Still, he paces his room while he waits for her. He listens with an ear to the door, hoping to hear the soft pad of her feet on her way to him.   

She wants him inside her, but only from behind.

She always flees to the godswood when they’re done. No sooner than he has pulled out of her is she pulling on her dress and escaping the castle in search of the gods or forgiveness or whatever else she thinks is needed after letting her brother touch her in ways she shouldn’t allow, much less want.

He tries not to let it bother him. He tries not to wonder if she is disgusted by the way his scent lingers on her skin. He tries not to want for her. He tries, for all the good it does him.

He questions their nights together and how they serve her. He knows he is there because he is foolish and he loves her and he wants his sister back. If she is there for love, he would never know it. He believes release is her goal, or merely a way to forget the horrors of her past for however long she is able.

She is so calm and cool all the time. If Sansa is anything, it is collected.

All the same, he wants her to feel something for him. She has seemed jealous in the past and sometimes affectionate when they share a bed. But he knows there is something missing and she is guarded.

He had thought her shameless, but her frequent trips to the heart tree insist otherwise. She is clearly capable of remorse, if nothing else. He wonders what it is to feel nothing but shame and yet return to him again and again, in search of something he possesses and hasn’t given her yet.

\---

“Do you keep me at arm’s length because of your shame?” The candles are blown out and the blackness of her room makes him bold. The memory of her looking away from him as he thrusts is fresh and painful.  “Do you distance us because you’re trying to lessen the sin?”

“It does us no good to get too close.”

So he keeps on pretending that it doesn’t bother him when she won’t meet his eyes. He acts as though he doesn’t mind when she pretends he isn’t there as he passes her in the halls during the daylight hours. He plays at just being a brother to his lovely sister and wills himself to be fine with the way she puts up walls between them.

\---

Margaery writes again. Robb skims it and then holds it above the open flame of the candle sitting on his table. The flames eat away at it, charring the edges until they curl up and fall away. Robb lets the flames lick at his fingertips before he puts it out.

_Marry. Wife. Heir. Happiness._

And then he sees Sansa in his doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. The lighting of his room is low, but he can see the tear tracks on her face. Her expression is hard. His heart leaps into his throat.

“What is it?”

Sansa starts to speak but a full throated sob comes up instead.

He considers going to her and wrapping his arms around her, but she hasn’t wanted that as of late. So he says nothing and reaches his hand out to her instead, trying to soothe her with the distance she loves so well between them.

“I haven’t bled.”

A long, deafening silence follows.

This time, the sob is his.

\---

Robb cannot marry her off. He could, but he won’t. It is a piece of him that grows within Sansa. He won’t be the doting uncle, sitting at a distance and watching as his son calls another man _father._ He won’t accept another man making Sansa smile. It isn’t an option. He won’t hear of it. He won’t consider it.

But Sansa does. She goes through lists of names that Robb begrudgingly writes out for her. She dismisses them based off any number of things. She won’t have anyone from the South, and she tells him she doesn’t think the Northern people would take to it very well either. He knows she is right.

Some are too low for the Princess of Winterfell.Some are too bold. Some are too war hardened. Some are too soft.

She won’t meet any of them. She makes inferences based off what she knows and what Robb can tell her. She comes to the same conclusion every time.

Robb has his own solution, but he cannot bring himself to say it to her. He is certain she will say no.

He has a crown forged for her anyway. It is hard and cold in his hands. He turns it over and over at night, thinking of how it would look on her head and in her hair. She was meant for it in a way that no one else was.

She finds it with him once and Robb thinks she might strangle him with her delicate hands.

Sansa cries instead.

\---

Robb can only see the bump when she is naked. It is small but it is there. He’s proud of it, but Sansa is scared. He helps her dress heavily to hide it.

No one notices anything.

She spends much of her time in the godswood. Robb follows her there on occasion and watches her at a distance. She prays a lot. He suspects she’s trying to save her soul, or that of the baby. Maybe it is Robb she prays for. He wonders if there’s any hope for them. He wonders if he has damned his own child.

Robb had given up on gods a long time ago, but he believes in justice when death arrives. There will be justice for both of them, he is certain. They have pushed their luck for far too long.

After he has spent in her one night, she is laying on her back with a hand on her growing stomach. Robb is sitting up, just looking at it, when Sansa grabs his hand and presses it to the slight curve. She smiles for the first time in a long while and he smiles back at her.

“There’s no point in pushing you away anymore.” Her face is solemn. “I’ve wasted so much time as it is.”

\---

He weds her in the simplest of ceremonies, true to all their customs. Sansa wears her crown well. Robb knows that she was always meant to have it.  

Once the word of their union travels, Robb learns that Elinor has not been as quiet about her trip to the North as he might have hoped. Whispers from King’s Landing make their way to Winterfell. He hears the Stark name strung alongside _Targaryen_ and _Lannister._ For a brief time, even Winterfell seems to swirl with foul gossip.

He spends his nights with Sansa all the same. Her belly swells. She grows every day. He presses his ear to her stomach sometimes, but usually he presses his hand to her to feel their babe stir inside her. Robb comes to think it can recognize the sound of his voice.

Grey Wind becomes more protective, if it is possible.

When Sansa’s belly really begins to show, a warmth envelopes Winterfell. Sansa ventures into the yard and mingles with the common folk. Little girls make her flower crowns and little boys bow to their queen. Grown women ask to feel her belly, and Robb smiles, knowing this would never happen in the South. Sansa allows it. She turns no one away.

 _Our way is the old way_. 

She starts to smile outside of her chamber, for people other than Robb. Her smile is the sweetest thing.

A crowd surrounds her one day, around the time the midwives inform Robb that Sansa is coming very close. She wears no crown but a chain of flowers in her hair, her hands full of bouquets and trinkets for good luck. There are children on her skirts and men wishing her well. Women tell her she glows.

He sees no fear in them. He sees no worry.

 _What have they to worry about?_ Robb asks himself. _Stark has joined Stark, and their child will be Stark through and through._

The opinions of the South do not concern him, for the tides are changing in Winterfell.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for the length.


End file.
